So Many Others Were
by BurgundyHope
Summary: After the final battle, some were left to "clean up"...
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

It wasn't from the shouting of spells during the battle—wordless magic had been used to great advantage. No, Minerva McGonagall's throat was raw from the terrible screaming she had done when Hagrid carried Harry's dead body from the Forbidden Forest. Minerva had always strived to present a strong, unshakable image for her students and colleagues to look up to. She was a strong woman made so by experience and necessity—she had survived the war against Grindewald, fought in the first war against Voldemort, and had to be a solid rock for Albus while he ran Hogwarts _and _the Order. However, merely her first glimpse of a lifeless Harry in Hagrid's arms had broken her.

_Harry is not dead._

It felt like fire now every time she swallowed, but she could not have held it in. She had cried out for the Boy Who Lived. She had cried out for the wizarding world's last best chance. But most importantly, Minerva had cried out, had felt her heart being torn asunder, for Harry Potter—a boy she loved very dearly—and as a culmination of all the horrors she had seen in both the wars against Voldemort and all of the grief that could never attempt to cover it all. Her children were being murdered.

_Harry is not dead._

Minerva suppressed a sigh and resisted the urge—in reality, the desperate _need_—to find somewhere quiet and sleep until her battered body and mind could better cope with what needed to be done. Ever since Voldemort first began his rise to power there had always been work for her to do. However, the task, the duty, the burden, _the torture_ ahead was perhaps among the worst jobs she would ever have to face in her lifetime. This final battle had not been without its losses, and now that the battle was finished, the dead—the dead on _both _sides of the fight—had to be gathered. She must help gather the dead and then explain to families why their children, fathers, mothers had not died in vain. Fortunately, her words would not be mere platitudes, for she truly believed them, as painful as they may be.

_Harry is not dead._

As she stood at the castle doors surveying the carnage that was the Hogwarts' grounds, a shudder ran through her body, worsening the trembling in her hands that she knew would not dissipate at any time in the near future. Minerva knew she was a witch, but the fallen heroes, the fallen…others…could not be moved into the Great Hall with a simple Levicorpus. The blood that covered the grounds and castle and even her own robes like a slick blanket could not be dispatched with an elementary Scourgify. Minerva knew she was a _powerful_ witch when it came right down to it, but using magic in this situation…it seemed too easy to her. It lessened the gravity of the situation and mocked the cause for which so many had died—

Sirius Black. For as long as she had known him—beginning when he started his schooling at Hogwarts—he had always had a penchant for trouble, and more than a few of her grey hairs had been given to her by him. But he was fiercely loyal and a courageous man with a passion for life, and she could not have been more proud of him.

When news of Sirius' death had reached her in St. Mungo's, Minerva had at once both cursed his foolishness and also praised his obvious love for Harry. But over it all, she had mourned his death, which hit her like a swift punch in the gut, and after the initial shock had passed, she had found herself sickened by a feeling she could not define at first. Eventually though, she put a name to it. Sirius had been cooped up in Grimmauld Place all that year, and then, spurred on by restlessness and love, rushed to help Harry without regard to the consequences and was killed. She herself had been stuck at Hogwarts that same year with the despicable Dolores Umbridge and then rushed to Hagrid's defense, with much the same motivations and emotions as Sirius. There was, however, a major difference—she had lived. The older generations were not meant to defy the odds while their children were beaten down. The name for her feeling was guilt. Minerva had survivor's guilt.

Alastor Moody. His loss had indeed left the world a more dangerous place. For all of his paranoia, he was a man driven by an intense desire to keep others safe. He knew everything about the darkness they faced so that others might not have to, so that innocent minds might have one more night of uninterrupted sleep. Minerva knew from experience that that made Alastor a hard man to get close to—even looking past his grizzled appearance and magic eye—but she also knew that the effort was more than worth it. What she didn't know—and would probably never know—was how a man whose maxim was "Constant vigilance!" could be betrayed to death so easily.

Albus Dumbledore. Minerva regretted the fact that many people would never know how much they had meant to Albus. He meant a lot to them, but they might have been surprised to learn just how much the "most powerful wizard of modern times" had truly loved them. And she regretted that no one could ever again get to know the _real_ Albus Dumbledore behind the title of "the greatest wizard alive." All of his life, all of his complexities, and all of his hopes, fears, and humanness would just be shoved under his wretched title and ignored.

Albus…. Minerva could keep her stern teacher's face in place in practically any situation, but whenever she let her thoughts turn to Albus…. Whenever she thought of Albus her throat constricted and she felt the backs of her eyes start to burn with tears and her chest immediately felt hollow. Albus had meant so many things to so many people, but he meant the world to Minerva. She was quite nearly his equal, as far as magical abilities were concerned, and could—and had—run the entire school without his help, but that was beside the point. When he had lived, he was always there with a twinkle in his eyes and a smile full of mischief, and just _being there_ had been enough. He had been her most faithful, must trusted friend, and now he was gone. _Gone._ And he had left a void that would never be filled again. Minerva would never feel completely whole again.

_Harry is not dead._


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

A hand rested reassuringly on Minerva's shoulder, a touch meant to lend strength, and with a start Minerva realized she was still standing at the castle's entrance. It was Horace, looking decidedly worse for the wear—torn robes singed in places and covered in blood that was not distinguishable as his or others'—but by the way he looked at her she could tell she looked much worse than he. If Minerva could have seen herself, she would have noticed her robes were much the same as Horace's, and her normally tight bun was practically non-existent at this point, greying raven hair falling around her face. A deep gash above her right eyebrow covered the side of her face in blood that was also endeavoring to matt itself in her hair. And all of that was only what she would have seen at a first look.

Neither Minerva nor Horace said a word, but their eyes met and an understanding passed between them—an apology full of regret and the assurance of forgiveness. How could she have doubted his loyalty? She had practically sent him away, and yet Horace and she had fought side-by-side, along with Kingsley, dueling Voldemort himself. Minerva made a mental note to never underestimate anyone again.

"There are only a few young ones left to be taken inside, Minerva. Merlin knows how so many of them snuck back to the castle to fight…." Horace let his sentence trail off and his eyes glazed over slightly, as if picturing all of the children's faces he had seen frozen in death.

Minerva studied the blood drying on her hands, stuck under her fingernails, trying to hold herself together, until Horace shook off his darker thoughts and continued, "Poppy is inside the Great Hall tending to the wounded, but Sybil and Pomona are out here searching once more for more students, wounded or…. You ladies stay in the castle after you're through with that. Hagrid and I and some of the men and older lads will take care of the rest."

Horace left quickly, as if now that he had spoken aloud he needed to act quickly in order to purge his thoughts. Sadly, Minerva knew those actions would only fuel his nightmares, however unavoidable they may be.

Minerva painstakingly made her way down the front steps, fighting almost nauseating pain with every step—a few curses had managed to get through her defenses, but Voldemort had done most of the damage when he had thrown her against the wall in a fit of rage, like she was nothing more than a rag doll. As she made her way over to Sybil and Pomona, she saw they were each lifting students into their arms. Sybil looked more sober—both physically _and_ emotionally—than Minerva had ever seen her, her eyes large and serious behind those ridiculous spectacles of hers, and Pomona had silent tears running down her plump face as she cradled a child gently in her arms. The child was almost too big for Pomona to be carrying, and yet in her stillness she appeared as small and frail as any scared six year old might. Minerva pushed her pain to the back of her mind and picked up her pace, side stepping obstacles—dead bodies and mangled limbs not being allowed to register in her mind—and hoping against hope—

"Jane and Tommy are only unconscious, Minerva!" The tone in Pomona's voice belied the tears on her face. The children were two of her Hufflepuffs, a third year and a second year. A jerk of her head pointed Minerva to another second year, still lying on the ground, looking curiously peaceful and innocent in the midst of all the destruction and evil around her. "Moira is just unconscious as well. She's the last of them." A tentative smile of relief mixed with pride did wonders for Pomona's countenance. It was curious that the House least remembered was the House that had fought the hardest, along with Minerva's own Gryffindors, of course.

Minerva let a small smile soften her pained features and assured Pomona and Sybil, "I will take care of Moira." The pain in her throat and the exhaustion trying to conquer her served to intensify her Scottish brogue—her voice was betraying the strength she sought to project. "Horace has informed me that he will be leading the men to take care of the others," she gestured around them with her hand without actually looking, "so you may help in the castle as you see fit once Tommy and Jane are delivered to Poppy."

The two women nodded and moved to walk past Minerva and up to the castle. As they passed her, a surprisingly normal and reserved voice spoke to her, "Don't wear yourself out too badly, Minerva. We need you too much, and there are many who are willing to help carry the load."

Startled, she replied without thinking, "Thank you, Sybil." But then she turned to look, and Sybil had already moved on. She wasn't drunk, she was being logical and helpful, and Minerva actually found herself grateful and moved by the unlikely show of concern—wonders would never cease, indeed.

Sybil and Pomona's trek to the Great Hall for Poppy's help led Minerva's scattered thought there as well. Poppy…. Minerva wasn't actually certain how much Poppy had fought, if at all. She had most likely tended to the injured and dying from the start. Minerva imagined that when one devoted one's life to _preserving_ life, taking it, or even hurting it, could prove impossible. Even as a teacher, molding young lives, she found it hard to participate in the battle. Only by focusing on those she loved and harnessing her desire to protect them at all costs had she been able to rationalize killing Voldemort's followers.

Despite their reputations and the truly evil aura surrounding each one, Minerva had seen them as former students—the Marauders—as mothers and fathers—Remus and Nymphadora—as someone's child—Fred Weasley—as dearly loved friends and family—Albus and Charity….

The all-too-familiar tightening in her chest overcame her again. Nothing had over been said explicitly, but Minerva had no illusions as to why Charity had not returned for the new term. She was dead. And the events surrounding the whole situation…it was on _his_ shoulders.

Minerva suddenly looked around at the destruction surrounding her, her heart rate accelerating. She thought of James and Lily, Sirius, Remus and Nymphadora, Fred Weasley—_her children_—her bottled up anger growing, nails cut into the palms of her hands. And she thought of her family—Alastor, Charity, Albus, and—

"Damn you to hell, Severus!" Only the dead were witness to her outburst. "Bloody coward…bastard…." It was on _his_ shoulders.

Something in front of her stirred, and just as quickly as her anger had come it was gone. She was alert, her hand almost to her wand, and the movement came again. "Moira…"she breathed. And this time Minerva cursed herself. How long had she been standing there while Moira lay, fairly soaked in the blood of others, needing to be taken to Poppy? Like the sudden releasing of a dam, Minerva rushed to Moira's side and crouched down to gather the child into her arms. It took all of her willpower to force her protesting body back into a standing position, but as the girl woke and began to whimper from her own pain and fear, Minerva whispered gently to her, "Oh my darling, Moira, you are safe. It will be alright, I promise you." Anyone listening in would have wondered at the extreme tenderness with which the usually strict transfigurations professor, however fair she may be, held the girl and spoke to her. "I won't let any more harm come to you, dear girl. Oh my child…."

She continued to whisper comforting words to the student, to one of her children, as she walked with determination back to the castle, to the Great Hall. Her steps only faltered once—her eyes had lingered too long on a Death Eater seemingly staring up at her, his torso split open and mocking her—but she just swallowed back the bile in her throat and clutched Moira tighter to herself, quickening her pace.

_Harry is not dead._


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

An eternity later and Minerva was gently handing Moira over to Poppy in the Great Hall. And to Minerva's dismay, Poppy looked as if she had aged ten years; her eyes were haunted, the lines in her face were deeper, her hair seemed greyer.

Poppy's usual authoritative tone was gone when she spoke. "There are too many, Minerva. There should not be this many."

"One would be too many, Poppy." A gentle reprimand, but one she directed at herself as well.

Poppy's grey eyes welled up with tears, and she swallowed hard to clear her throat of the emotion. She opened her mouth but nothing would come out, and she nodded instead.

Slowly, Poppy carried Moira over to an unoccupied cot situated between the House tables that Minerva had earlier moved back to their rightful places. It was a miracle that there were any open cots at all, and one that Minerva was grateful for. One more open cot hopefully meant one less injured student or staff or family member.

The infirmary was not big enough for all of the wounded and their families, and Poppy wanted them all in one place, so the Great Hall was the logical choice. But now, looking out across the room, Minerva felt as though a boulder had sunk into the pit of her stomach. The room had been filled with their wounded and their dead when the battle had moved inside. It should have been impossible; it should have been forbidden to fight over top of the already dead and dying, but it had happened. The thought had not truly crossed her mind with any real weight until now, and the revulsion it brought threatened to overwhelm her.

Another "impossible", "forbidden" thought: _oh Merlin, that this would happen at a __**school**_. The past school year had been one terrifying day after another, every minute an internal battle where each professor walked a thin line. Somehow, protecting the students had been on both sides of that line, but while on one side it was done by choosing to back down and give the Carrows and Severus small victories, the other side meant standing up to them and possibly being "disposed of." Silently, but unanimously, the professors had decided to walk as close to the latter side as possible, and now not one of them could say they were a stranger to the Cruciatus curse. It not only tortured the body, but the mind as well—Frank and Alice Longbottom were proof of that—but hopefully because the professors knew the curse so well, many of the students were still strangers to it.

But even after all of that, no one had been quite prepared for the events of the past twelve hours. Voldemort's desire for control over Hogwarts had always been evident, and so when Albus was murdered Minerva knew that Voldemort's takeover at the school was practically inevitable. But the battle? Her own students having to fight witches and wizards over twice their age and probably that much more powerful? Nothing could have prepared Minerva or the other professors for that. It had been too horrific to even contemplate.

Until the nightmare actually began.

She shuddered as the scene before her told her that she had yet to wake up.

_Harry is not dead._


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

"Professor," a voice called to her from behind.

_Harry!_

Minerva turned around sharply—quickly spotting Harry, Ron and Hermione following him—but carefully controlled the emotions on her face. Everyone had lost so much that she would not let them lose her as well. She would _always_ be there for them if she had anything to say about it.

The three approached her, and she gave each of them a nod, making brief eye contact, and taking a quick survey of their injuries. The sight made her want to cry, like most things in the past few hours had, but thank Merlin it wasn't any worse.

"Professor, could I have a moment?" Harry's voice was weary, but Minerva could hear the determination in it also. _You've already given so much…._ It flashed hard in his eyes too, but was there something else? It couldn't be…guilt. She was shocked, and this time she couldn't shield her emotions.

"Yes, Potter?" At least her voice didn't show her surprise. And Potter? Calling him Harry now would shatter her façade; take her back to his "dead" body. He needed to be strictly a student right now; a _normal _student and not the Boy-Who-Lived.

"I thought you should know that Professor Snape is dead. Voldemort killed him. Had his snake attack him."

_**Professor**_ _Snape?_ Harry's sudden show of respect for Severus Snape was surprising. And now that she herself would never again accord him that respect, it was even more unexpected.

"Oh…." She did not respect him anymore; she couldn't, not after his monstrous betrayal. She didn't respect him, so why did she feel so empty now?

Minerva's uncertainty lasted a moment too long, and Harry picked up on it, graciously continuing as if nothing was wrong. "I was there when he died…" and Harry hesitated a moment before continuing. "Professor, I've left some memories in the Pensieve in Dumbledore's office…. You need to see them. If you can go look at them now I think it would be best." The boldness Harry had recently acquired sent a brief smile to—"Professor Snape gave them to me before he died." And with that declaration it was gone. "They're his." There could be no confusion now.

Minerva nodded absently, and she must have looked terribly worried, because Hermione suddenly stepped closer to her and put a comforting hand on her upper arm. "Everything will be ok, Professor. Things will get back to…well…some sort of normal soon."

_Oh, Hermione…I should be reassuring __**you.**_ Hermione, Ron, Harry—they would never be the same again. _No one_ would be the same again. Something beyond comprehension had entered their world and stolen the innocence from it, and there was no going back. All anyone could do now was move forward.

Minerva mentally shook herself and smoothed down the front of her robes—as if trying to rid them of wrinkles would really make a difference at this point—with her hands. They were still shaking.

"I am quite alright, Miss Granger." Her timbre was firm again. "Now, if you will excuse me, I will go and look at those memories." She must have sounded too harsh, because a look of hurt flashed across Hermione's brown eyes, and she started to step away, nodding slowly.

Impulsively, Minerva reached out before Hermione could get any further and gathered her into a fierce hug. The girl stiffened for a moment, but then relaxed into the embrace, drawing comfort from her professor's touch in much the same way Minerva was.

Before she could miss the chance, Minerva whispered in Hermione's ear, "I am so very proud of you, dear girl. Thank you for—" The emotions running through her cut her off, and she couldn't trust her voice any longer. She felt Hermione nodding against her shoulder though, and knew she understood.

Taking a deep breath, she released Hermione and gave Ron and Harry what she hoped was an encouraging smile. They almost had the decency to wipe the dumbstruck looks off their faces, but they couldn't quite manage. Minerva nodded their way once more before heading to the staircase to investigate the matter of Severus' memories.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

Years upon years of trips to Albus' office kicked in, and Minerva headed to the office on autopilot, letting her mind race through theories, doubts, and speculations. Another murder that no one else knew about yet? A clue to another attempt of Voldemort's to gain immortality? Perhaps evidence of yet another spy betraying their cause? Her heart seemed to be pounding just as quickly as her thoughts, and she soon found herself to be running through the empty stone corridors, anxious to reach her destination.

The gargoyle had already been knocked over. The thought that she would need to renew the old security measures around the castle left her mind as hurriedly as it entered, and she continued her race up the stairs. Adrenaline numbed her pain and heightened her senses, something she was usually grateful for but could not be bothered to notice this time.

And suddenly she was there. Severus hadn't changed a single thing during his time as headmaster—she'd need to put some thought into that later. Albus' Pensieve was sitting on his desk, already swirling with memories. It could have been any normal day of term, and Minerva was visiting Albus just for the sheer pleasure of it. There were no hidden agendas, no Dark Lord to protect the castle against, no death. They were just two old, dear friends with tea to drink, a chess game to play, and each other's company to enjoy.

It _should_ have been any normal day of term.

But it wasn't. Albus was not there, waiting for her with sparkling blue eyes and his ever-ready smile. There was no tea set out, and no chess pieces stood waiting on their board.

Minerva stood in the door frame, one hand against it to keep her upright, her chest heaving. Emotions raged behind her eyes, but her feet remained glued to the floor where she stood. She was anxious to view the memories Severus had given Harry, and yet she was frightened of what she might find. Logic had taken its leave of her world some time ago. Logic couldn't exist in a world where children were killed. Murdered.

Finally, summoning her Gryffindor courage, Minerva willed herself to walk over to the Pensieve, and she thrust her face in before Godric Gryffindor could communicate to the Sorting Hat the dire mistake it must have made when sorting Minerva McGonagall.

The nature of Pensieves makes the viewer of the memories as active a participant as possible. However, in this case, Minerva could only stare in shock and horror as memory after memory swirled around her. Severus as a child, with Lily…Lily's jealous sister, Petunia…the sorting and the betrayed look in Severus' eyes…what Severus overheard…his desperate plea to Dumbledore…Dumbledore's orders and another desperate request…the doe—

Minerva pulled herself out of the Pensieve, gasping for breath like someone who had been drowning. She _had_ been drowning—in Severus' memories, in revelations, in her own guilt. Harry's glance made sense now.

Severus had not betrayed Albus…the Order…her. They—no, _she_ had betrayed _Severus._ Everyone else had their own reasons to condemn him, and they were not unfounded. But after almost two decades of life with Severus, _she_ should have known better than to immediately consign him to such a hated fate as all the others had. And she should have kept her trust in Albus strong. Hadn't she always trusted him implicitly? If he trusted Severus, then so she should have done. Albus' death should not have shaken her faith in him and, by extension, Severus.

She had only just learned the truth, but already Minerva could feel the guilt eating away at her like a relentless disease. Still standing over the Pensieve, she clutched the basin even tighter. She couldn't give in to any crippling emotions, not when there was still so much at stake. She had a castle and school—a life—to rebuild.

White-knuckled, she took a deep breath and pushed the guilt to the back of her mind with concentrated effort. The injured needed to be moved somewhere that was more comfortable and that looked less like a battlefield, and the dead needed to be taken care of. The Death Eaters…something would be figured out for them. And those who died fighting against Voldemort, they would be honored. The injured and the dead—they needed to be taken care of as soon as possible.

Turning towards the door, Minerva could feel his eyes on her. She knew he had most likely been watching her from the moment she entered the office, but she steadied her breathing and ignored the pressure from his gaze. He would wait, be patient until she had the time—and could better afford to open up completely with him and show any form of weakness—to come back and talk to him. He understood, she knew he did, so there was no need to acknowledge him now and risk losing her composure. There was no need to offer any words, but she gave some up anyway. Only two.

"Later, Albus."

On Minerva's way to the door, a thought almost caused her to pause in her course, but it was gone before she could get a handle on it, so she kept moving. She was in a hurry now to escape from the tension she had created within herself by addressing Albus' concern.

Had she tried to grasp her thought just a bit harder, she would have realized she was thinking, _Severus' body will be somewhere among the dead…._


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Minerva was almost to the Great Hall before she even realized she had left Albus'—Severus'—probably _her_ office. Headmistress Minerva McGonagall.

Kingsley Shacklebolt had already been declared acting Minister of Magic, and she knew that she would be named Headmistress if Kingsley had anything to say about it. And truth be told, she would be damned if the position was passed off to anyone else. She wasn't being vain, but no one else had been at Hogwarts so long, endured so much with it, and could rebuild it as it should be. And not even Minerva knew that no one else possessed the courage, wherewithal, and downright stubbornness that bringing Hogwarts back to life would take.

Giving herself another mental shake for the hundredth time in what was too short a span, Minerva took stock of the Great Hall as she stood in its doorway. It was much the same as when she'd left it. The glass windows were all shattered, large stones from the walls lay scattered around the room where they had fallen, and then enchanted ceiling had ceased to work its magic. Families and friends still crowded around one another, giving comfort both to their injured and to each other. Around the room, some still cried quietly, mourning their loved ones who had been slain or shocked that anything so evil had dared to enter their lives at all. Poppy bustled from group to group, still healing small injuries on some and preparing others to be moved, either to a better place in the castle or to St. Mungo's. Horace, Sybil, Pomona, and some of Minerva's other colleagues followed Poppy, helping where they could or lending their support to the grieving and "shell-shocked."

Minerva let her eyes wander around the room, trying to account for all of her remaining students. She had often done the same thing from her place at the Head Table during meals over the years. However, this past year had made it a morbid habit; a twisted bet that none of her children had "disappeared" in the night.

Luna's father had shown up and they sat together, happy to be reunited, but more subdued than they usually were. _She could imagine they were all accounted for._ Neville sat at one of the House Tables with Augusta seeming to stand guard over him, but with a beaming smile of pride in her grandson. _With all of the confusion though, it was hard to be sure._ Ron and Hermione sat with their arms around each other, speaking words of encouragement to Molly, still kneeling by Fred's body. Her _son._ _She had no way to know how many of the younger students had snuck back to fight._ But where was Harry?

_Harry is not dead._

"Professor," a slightly strained voice called her from behind.

_Harry!_

It was a very surreal moment, like déjà vu, but this time she moved more slowly. The timbre of Harry's voice did not bode well, and she had a foolish desire to put off any more dire tidings for as long as possible.

She was still turning when harry reached her side and then moved past her carrying a heavy burden. Since he had called to her, she followed him fifteen or more feet into the Great Hall until he stopped and lay his burden down carefully, reverently on the floor—the only clear spaces left being on the hard, stone floor.

Harry moved to the side so she could see what he had carried in, and she immediately wished he hadn't.

Minerva's heart clenched painfully and her breath caught in her throat. A shaking hand rose to cover her mouth, but not quickly enough to keep the strangled whisper from escaping her lips.

"Severus…."

His skin, in the little areas that were not covered in his sticky, crimson blood, was paler than anyone's skin had a right to be. And in death, Severus' angular features stuck out garishly around seemingly hollow eyes and sunken cheeks—the past year had exacted its price from him as well.

Minerva felt the nausea building up inside of her, but she couldn't take her eyes off of Severus' lifeless form. Robes that had once billowed around him like storm clouds on the blackest of nights now clung to a body that was too thin, matted to him by the blood he had lost. Puncture wounds in his neck gave the evidence of Nagini's handiwork, and Severus' head tilted at an unnatural angle showed the results.

The Great Hall had become eerily silent when Harry had come in carrying Severus, but Minerva did not notice. It was as if the castle itself was holding its breath to see what her reaction would be.

For Minerva, this truly hellish scene before her embodied all the terrors she had seen and experienced and _felt_ during the wars against Voldemort—death that visited too many that she held too dearly, unspeakable tortures that left strong wizards and witches begging for that same death, betrayals that had ripped her heart out, guilt that clawed at her chest.

Yes, evil had been defeated in the end, but the journey….

Unable to stop herself any longer and seemingly no longer aware of the people surrounding her, Minerva's suppressed emotions finally carried her to the edge, and she plunged over it, collapsing at Severus' side. And laying her head on his chest, heart-wrenching, bone-wracking sobs tore out of her over-taxed body, echoing endlessly, terrifyingly around the Great Hall.

Harry was not dead, but so, _so_ many others were.


End file.
